tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75117672014-10-06T17:21:31.404-07:00A Journey Into Reasonmenoreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-36886720118314946242009-04-06T22:30:00.000-07:002009-04-07T00:52:14.404-07:00Rod isn't sleeping well.He's been going to cider and fry bars after work lately, and it's becoming a trend with him. He and the "grips" and "gaffers" will retire to one of those late-night places that specializes in chicken fingers, gravy fries, poppers, and all other manner of golden brown grease-o-lator foods. They wash it all down with pitchers of hard cider, ordered three at a time. Sure, they love it, and it keeps them from being dizzy on cigarettes, but the toll it takes on his health is non-trivial.<br /><br />When he finally got home last night, he didn't even touch the cup of cranberry water I had set out for him. He came straight to bed, snored like an apneating didgeridoo, and reeked of cigarettes and grease. It was like sleeping next to a great big farting pile of college. I don't like being so crass, but welcome to my hell.<br /><br />I need to guide him away from this habit naturally. It all comes down to the production crew. The cardigan and corduroy bunch are a hedonistic culture by nature; it might serve us well if I got him involved with more of an "historical obesity" crowd. Reality shows are the bane of our existence in some ways, but I can appreciate their isolated effectiveness.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-6388243794383608212008-11-26T23:55:00.001-08:002008-11-27T01:10:20.451-08:00SensibillyYes, you read that right. I'm not surprised you've never heard of Sensibilly. It'd be way off your radar, most likely, but lately it's been a real focus of my evolution as a dancer.<br /><br />First, though, I have to tell you about something Rod's been up to. <span style="font-style: italic;">He's been working with Max Planter.</span> Yes, THE Max Planter. Max is an energy healer, and in addition to being gorgeously physically fit, his on-set chemistry with Rod is extraordinary. You really need to check out the first volume of their maiden series, <span style="font-style: italic;">Proof of Exit</span>, even if you aren't into same-sex male adult features. Believe me, you'll be amazed at how truly blurry the line can be between where one man ends and another begins. <span style="font-style: italic;">($24.99, Hattokiri-Hydra Films) </span><br /><br />Okay, back to Sensibilly. You've no doubt been subjected to the cacophony that is "Rockabilly" — kids having fun dressing up like cowboys and greasers and going outside. They drink, they do anatomically incorrect joint-destroying dances from the 1950s, and have horseshoes on their clothing. Nonsense. I've never had the patience for a second of it. But along comes Sensibilly.<br /><br />Rudolfo Bucharini, the visionary founder of Sensibilly, wanted to create a "welcome mat" movement for kids who had grown up and grown out of the Rockabilly thing. Costumes and outlandishly masculine cars are discouraged; most arrive by bicycle or gravity-sensible skitter-cart in something comfortable and sustainably grown. We don't smoke, and we <span style="font-style: italic;">certainly</span> don't drink alcohol. Dancing is encouraged, but those who don't wish to socialize can lounge together in the reading area — a large blanket Rudolfo spreads out a couple dozen yards from the designated "dance floor" (usually a Tiki torch-delimited square about the size of a badminton court). You wear your own iPod, so as not to disturb the other dancers, or you just feel your own way around the space's energy. The vibe turns out to be tremendous, and experimental. I find myself slipping out a new stutter-shuffle or flying heel variation in an environment of total, non-judgmental freedom. It's incredible.<br /><br />The Rockabilly-disaffected are trickling in here and there, largely thanks to Rudolfo's heavy flyering around the community college. We have a low retention rate, which I'm actually really proud of, because I know this group isn't for every dunderhead ex-costume cowboy. I'm realistic. And that's why I'm underwriting our next county-wide flyering campaign. It's an angel-phase thing. You'll thank me when Sensibilly finally comes to your town. You'll owe me a big one.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-82165652574688325752008-04-25T22:42:00.000-07:002008-04-25T23:24:51.714-07:00How ABSOLUTELY INSENSITIVE.As you know, one of Cornelius's many embarrassing "jobs" is transcribing adult videos. I guess it was just a matter of time before he came across some of my partner Rod Huggins' work. Let me just say that he spared no acidic, over-wrought insult in his flaying of Rod, and although Rod is taking it well enough (he is in the family room eating Christopher Elbow ganache and reading heavily-scented fan letters), I'm as mad as a lathering hornet.<br /><br />Here's how my phone call to that senseless old fool went.<br /><br />- - -<br /><br />PAT: Cornelius! Are you responsible for subtitling <span style="font-weight: bold;">Chuck Wagon Chubbies Eight: Blowdown at the Bunslinger Corral</span>?<br /><br />CORNELIUS: I...it sounds familiar. Patrick, you sound angry.<br /><br />PAT: Rod is DEVASTATED by your descriptions of him and his acting!<br /><br />CORNELIUS: Rod? Rod...your partner? Goodness no! Patrick, if I had known that was—<br /><br />PAT: Ahem. “The goateed chap with the accordion-like love handles and picnicky shoulders hoists his bilious girth over the corral’s top-most beam, severely testing the workmanship of the anonymous cowpoke carpenter who long ago labored to build a containment device with a far nobler—and nimbler—animal in mind...”<br /><br />CORNELIUS: Goodness, that is a bit astringent. I am so—<br /><br />PAT: AHEM. “...As the two suet pots bumble artlessly with one another, the viewer feels the urge to stir seeds and bits of chopped raisin into the deep, unctuous folds of their jobbly midriffs, thereby creating a nutritious place for birds to eat."<br /><br />CORNELIUS: Oh dear. I regret I cannot take it all back, as I believe it is committed to a special track on all distributed copies of the title. Is Rod much distraught?<br /><br />PAT: Never you mind Rod's feelings! I'm just calling to let you know that you've really screwed up THIS time!<br /><br />CORNELIUS: Patrick, please let me come over and offer a proper apology to—<br /><br />- - -<br /><br />Too late. I'd made my point, and I didn't want to let him come over and hem and haw and pretend like this wasn't his fault. Because it was. <span style="font-style: italic;">He</span> did that, <span style="font-style: italic;">he</span> was rude and nasty, and now <span style="font-style: italic;">he's</span> going to have to pay. Rod and I are going to have a dinner party for all our closest friends soon, and he's DEFINITELY off the guest list. Just his luck, because I'm breaking out my latest, labor-of-love recipe for cashew bean "cassoulet" with sumac tofuouille and Rhodac pine extract.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-57892891051087496422007-11-08T19:47:00.000-08:002007-11-08T20:47:02.748-08:00Soytopia.Well, you're probably wondering what happened to <span style="font-weight: bold;">Soytopia: An Ecological and Sociopolitical Clarity Bar</span>. It's been a few months since the opening, and I've been so busy an update is long overdue.<br /><br />After the first disastrous morning, I shuttered the place for good. I have no patience for the sort of social organism that can't immediately respond to a literal gem in its politiculinary landscape, and I didn't want to waste another dollar on Spuni grass that would never get eaten, so I did the smart thing and cut my losses. I feel great about it -- makes me feel superior to this stupid-ass town and all its wannabe thinkers. I heaved all the food into the dumpster out back but locked it so the freegan dickheads wouldn't get a gram of my investment. I'd rather bacteria and seagulls ate it than a bunch of free-loaders with perfectly functional wallets.<br /><br />What have I been so busy with since then? I've been watching a lot of documentaries about South America and the damage the chocolate industry has wreaked down there. I'm getting my notes together for a project that will hopefully destroy the entire cacao production system from the ground up. You won't get chocolate any more, but you'll live in a better world.<br /><br />There is no "you're welcome" on the front lines. It's not why we do what we do. So I don't expect to hear it, and I don't need my inbox filled with it. I'll fix things, you just sit and watch. That's how the system works.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-44923336090020766512007-08-31T10:12:00.000-07:002007-08-31T10:40:06.320-07:00Soytopia: Opening Morning!I had started to think it would never happen! <span style="font-weight: bold;">Soytopia: An Ecological and Sociopolitical Clarity Bar</span> finally opened its doors last Thursday. Whew. I could write a book. Actually, once we get in the black, I think I will. It should be a scandalous exposé of the joke that is the private contracting industry. God, those grease-labes.<br /><br />I clicked the latest, most expensive, code-compliant brass locks open at 6:59.59 AM on Thursday, and gently propped the doors into an open position (it is my opinion that my "bar" should always be room temperature, so my doors stay open all day). Things were quiet for a bit, when all of a sudden a bird of some sort dove in and started attacking the granola bar! I shooed him away with a broom, but not after he had defiled the contents of every single ingredient tray. That invasion cost me over $39.78 in product, not to mention valuable time. Fortunately, no one was in yet.<br /><br />Around about noon I noticed that word had still not gotten out, so I began to hang my pièce de résistance above the bar: a recumbent penny-farthing, antiqued to look like a relic from the 1920s. I suspended the bike with twine and temper cable and I have to say it looks awfully damned fine where it hangs. Reminds me of that U2 stage with the small car, only more intelligent and provocative. Once that was done, I began to prepare a few of the various live sandwiches and lavoshes -- the ones I knew would be highest in demand during the lunch rush.<br /><br />By one o'clock the town's enlightened had still failed to arrive, so I stuck my head outside to see if there had been an air raid warning or police cordon at the end of the street. The idiotic customers of the Dude and Catastrophe were spilling out onto the sidewalk, arm in arm and singing bawdy songs about maids named Mary whose nether regions could kill a canary, so I slammed the door. Room temperature be damned, I didn't want them to think they could ramble into MY establishment having that kind of time. Just to be safe, I put the CLOSED sign in the window, dropped the blinds, and turned the chairs up on the tables.<br /><br />All in all, not the best opening day, but not the worst. Some time around six PM a wanderer named Michael started playing guitar on the sidewalk out front, which I took to be a good omen. He's asleep out there now - I may slip some live lavosh under the front door so that he has a snack. It would be a shame to waste it.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-87670339011162939532007-07-10T17:31:00.000-07:002007-07-10T23:37:15.939-07:00Soytopia a few steps closer to opening.Soytopia: A Sociopolitical and Ecological Clarity Bar! (I'm thinking of keeping the exclamation point in the title) is three months closer to opening, and you'd think that'd mean a lot, but you'd be wrong. First, here's what's been holding off progress on the space itself:<br /><br />1) Is it possible to find a contractor who won't pass judgment on a socio-homopolitical lifestyle? Every time these clowns get a clue that I'm of a certain persuasion, they start playing pranks. They whistle when I walk by, pretend to pull down their tool belts, and in some cases call me "Lucy." I've had to fire three crews so far, and every single time someone manages to quickly draw a penis on the wall before they clear out. I swear I've got my eyes peeled, but they always sneak this past me. I have to paint over it myself, naturally, so the next group doesn't get a head start.<br /><br />2) What is "FOX" motorcycle racing? Is that something that people who have not heard of falafel or Europe enjoy? I swear, every one of these goons has a FOX sticker on his truck, and one dope's ice cream-shaped girlfriend ("BODY BY ICE CREAM," I laughed to myself) even had the FOX tattoo across her shoulders. Unless they have their wedding on a big dirt jump ramp, that's going to look pretty stupid come the big day. I mean, as opposed to the rest of the time, when it's a lovely statement of what she believes in (noisy machines piloted by twitchy valley trash named Jamie-Kye). When I saw that girl, I told the crew they were off the job.<br /><br />I was primering the wall by the counter until 3am.<br /><br />3) With forward-thinking food products, you unfortunately see a lot of brands folding before the market makes time to understand them. Daffy Dave, Pablo Ingrèsu, even Tim Fadone's "Breath of a Healer" Wicksocks™ are gone (poor Tim - I emailed him, don't worry). I've got to line up at LEAST a dozen new foods to stock, and keep a close eye on them. I hear good things about the "LiveWire" living baby kombu "papardelle" - still has the root in sand and everything. Brilliant.<br /><br />4) Admittedly, my informal poll on the bar's concept resulted in a less than red-hot response. I'm clearly going to have to host some workshops and "theme nights," to keep things going during the critical first six months. It'll just be the usual suspects from around town - Tantric SkyFucking, with Melody Rain and Dan; Dr. Bert's Banjo Tuning Seminars; Tumbling for Tots with Teacher Steve. I wish I had a back room for this stuff. I'll have to close completely on those nights, draw the blinds, and hope they all come back on regular business days.<br /><br />Wheesh. This is a lot of work. I'm not saying I respect other bar/restaurant owners, because I know they cut corners every chance they get, but I do at least "get" why so many of them throw in the towel before they've tried even HALF as hard as I have.<br /><br />Pat.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-70012747669832795302007-04-11T14:51:00.000-07:002007-04-11T14:59:26.562-07:00SOYTOPIA: A SOCIOPOLITICAL AND ECOLOGICAL CLARITY BAR!You thought I was full of it, didn't you? Well, once again, you've managed to be wrong. Just like I said, my uncle Bradley has a vacant shopfront not thirty yards away from the Dude and Catastrophe, and he said I could turn it into a competing establishment. Get ready to eat your own asses into the <span style="font-style: italic;">dirt</span>, Ray and Cornelius. Business is war, and you just met the Harry Truman of sustainable, zero-impact veganism. I'm going to drop a V-bomb and your business will go up in an eco-friendly, smokeless pyre fueled by <span style="font-style: italic;">organically ruined dreams</span>.<br /><br />Whew. I'm a little giddy after that last sentence. That was good, even for me.<br /><br />Aside from the usual stupid carpenters and motorcycle-weekend idiots with white trucks, things have been going AWESOME. Check out these additions to our menu (some of which are based on my chats with people from the local boards and cafés):<br /><br />1) Lever Bee's Bananas Thermidor (a sweet banana substitute for an unsavory old lobster monstrosity - imported from England)<br /><br />2) Pablo Ingrèsu's "Disproportionate Snack" (rough translation). This is the first Hispanic fortune cookie I've ever seen, and the fortunes are enormous. The three I've tried each ran to over five hundred words. One was even some important Central American poetry.<br /><br />3) "Punk Slake." Everybody knows how committed the punk rock movement is to the Straight Edge philosophy of purity and responsibility, and now they've got a vitamin drink processed by machines that run on northeastern energy grid overstock! (One of their dads works for a company that hedges against this particular grid — it's complicated, but it WORKS.)<br /><br />4) Tim Fadone's "Breath of a Healer" Wicksocks™. Wear these dense gauze packs on your feet, forehead, and wrists while you eat, and they'll normalize the temperature imbalances caused by normal mealtime pulmonary-thermal release. I plan to have a coin-operated dispenser by the front booth. If you order enough, Tim will print your company's logo on them, so I need to come up with a logo asap. Some quick thoughts are...circles, spheres...globe...carrot piercing the globe...no, too violent. More on this later.<br /><br />5) Tofupia. What's Tofupia? Only the tastiest "nIce cream" sandwich around. Best part? They're raw. Yeah, good luck finding one of those at the crappy Dude and Catastrophe.<br /><br />It's a little too early to set an opening date, what with all these moronic contractors who can't seem to find their rear ends with both hands, let alone their calendars (perhaps their calendars are up their asses! Hah! There's a thought). Anyhow, just bookmark this page and check back once or twice a day to see what's new.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pat.</span>menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-148455522226400342007-03-03T20:33:00.000-08:002007-03-04T17:17:58.427-08:00Cornelius's new pub absolutely disgusts me.We have a new pub—which, by the way, is short for "public house"—in town. Unfortunately, I am not invited to this "public" place. The fact that they don't even have the <span style="font-style: italic;">guts</span> to say it to my face has me spitting mad. What's worse is that the pub, the "Dude and Catastrophe," is run by two "friends" of mine: Cornelius and Ray.<br /><br />It comes down to this: there is not a single item at this public house which I can consume or enjoy, either physically, artistically, or intellectually. I am quite simply not welcome, as nothing is offered for me. It's as though the whole place was designed to keep me, and specifically me, out.<br /><br />Proof #1: the jukebox. The jukebox only contains stupid English "pop" music from recent decades. Who can have an intelligent conversation while Mick Jagger is in the room? Who can take themselves seriously with the stupid Beatles yabbering away about trite boy-girl situations in the background? Sure, as a concession to reason they have a little U2 featuring Bono, but none of the ones that I like. They only have the older macho stuff.<br /><br />Proof #2: the food. There is not a single eco-friendly dish in the place. Pies? Fries? Burgers? Wings? Their menu is essentially a mass grave of barnyard animals. Would it kill them to place little complimentary bowls of chickpeas or edamame on the bar? They don't even serve organically-produced beer — not that I'd drink it.<br /><br />Proof #3: the restroom door gendercators are simultaneously vague and horribly sexist: "COXSWAINS," for men, I think, and "MUFFETS," I think, for women.<br /><br />You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to open up a competing establishment, right across the street. You heard me, and you know I'm serious. My uncle has a vacant shopfront not thirty yards away, and he'd let me do whatever I want with the place. I'm going to open an all-vegan, emissions-free pleasure utopia. Oh—this just came to me! I'm going to call it—get ready for this—"SOYTOPIA: A SOCIOPOLITICAL AND ECOLOGICAL CLARITY BAR"! How GENIUS! We'll serve all my personal bestitute favorites: "air-fried" Vegus chips, Dotty Dan's Double-Xanthan Chewy Chowder, Okra River's oversized "whole pickled okra not-dogs," and Legion of the Leaf brown rice and raisin dolmas. On the radio? There's a free college jazz station that comes in downtown — perfect. Bathroom doors? MEN and WOMEN will probably work, call me crazy. Although, in an effort to be sensitive, I might have accommodating modern spellings, such as, "WOMYN," "MYN" (the Y indicating the male's Y chromosome), and "MXCN" (a nod of the head to the M2F Cross-gendered community whose second chromosome more closely resembles an X than a Y). Hm. I may need to have a third bathroom for transsexuals. I need to get on the phone. I'm sorry, I have to go. That's how serious I am about this.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1166603093451468712006-12-19T22:52:00.000-08:002006-12-21T22:26:21.040-08:00That BITCH.That piece of shit! That lousy BITCH! That CUNT!<br /><br />I'll explain, but I'm not happy about it. You're going to find out something about me that will have you rolling in the aisles. Whatever. I couldn't cash a check for a shit and two peanuts with what I think of you.<br /><br />First, I'd been particularly vulnerable to colds for the last several months or so, and so on the advice of Ray's doctor (he is reviewed as the best in the area) I agreed to consume beef once again. ONLY IN SMALL DOSES. For medical purposes. It's not like I was deep-throating skirt steak at Chili's, like the rest of you schlubs who clean your ears with System Of A Down and get nervous if you take a shit smaller than a baked potato.<br /><br />So there I was, my tightly-tied baggie with the styrofoam container of beef sukiyaki ("Ohayooo!" - $6.95) harnessed carefully against the passenger door of the Insight, trying to back out of my parking spot on the busy main street downtown. As it is the Christmas season, the street was jam-packed, and I knew that waiting for a person of decency to let me out could be quite a while.<br /><br />Finally my window of opportunity came. A small black Mercedes held position when traffic moved forward, and I backed slowly out.<br /><br />To my horror, the driver began to honk and advance! I was aghast. What was this betrayal? Then I SAW it! She had been typing on a phone! She hadn't been trying to let me in at all!<br /><br />With a haste of rage she pulled into oncoming traffic to get around me. Oh, she succeeded, alright (the Insight isn't the fastest rocket ship in the universe), but you can be sure I yelled out of my window at her ("WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM YOU BITCH YOUR CUNT IS REAL ESTATE AND ITALIANS THROW FRUIT AT YOUR MIND!").<br /><br />Man, did that juice me. I hadn't felt that good in ages. The fellow behind her was watching it unfold and I was able to pull into traffic right behind her. I laid on some pretty hard stares but she kept pretending to text on her cell phone. I wrote her license plate # in my dashbook and if I ever see her here again I'll give her a few miles of Pat Time. Did I mention I've hooked the Insight up with a dash cam? I'm sure she'll fuck up again. I may go back to that stretch tomorrow at the same time to see if it's an area she regularly uses. Usually it is.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1150788051220543362006-06-20T00:02:00.000-07:002006-06-20T00:20:51.236-07:00Car ride idiotI do not live on a busy street, so usually I am able to back my car out without having to wait long or accommodate active drivers. I check the sidewalk in both directions (damned Raz'r scooters), check the traffic, and bop out. I've never had an incident. Until today, that is.<br /><br />There I was, 360-degree window sight and mirrors clear, bopping quickly out into the street before shifting fluidly into first gear and getting on my way. What do I spy out of the corner of my rear-view mirror as I finish my entry to the roadway, but a large truck advancing. No big deal, I think. He'll slow.<br /><br />I shifted into first and applied the accelerator, when what do I see but the big truck trying to pass me in the other lane! He's honking at me! It's some weird type of 80s "dually" American truck, with an extended cab and the small orange lights across the front of the roof!<br /><br />I was furious. How dare this <span style="font-family: courier new;">asshole</span> disregard my vehicle—my life—like that.<br /><br />At the stop light, the truck and I were parked next to each other — he turning right and I turning left. It took a moment of thought, but I finally looked over: there he was, cheap gold watch, blue tank top, gold necklace, mustache...<span style="font-style: italic;">and once he saw that I was looking, he flipped me off.</span><br /><br />Yes, he looked at me with a serious face and flipped me off. I did the smartest thing you can do in those circumstances, which is to hold up a map, slap it repeatedly while looking at the aggressor, and then point back at the aggressor, as though you were blaming them for the map. It's one of the best ways to make sure they make no connection between the incident and the driveway you just left.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1148622566481672182006-05-25T22:15:00.000-07:002006-06-06T22:38:52.980-07:00Back to Trader Joe's.I'm not going to get into why I stopped shopping at Trader Joe's, but I will just say that I could never show my face back there again and feel safe. Hence my predicament of late.<br /><br />Trader Joe's produces a wide variety of proprietary frozen foodstuffs, and a few of them are quite remarkable (despite the jelly-bloods who hock them). You know I do not toss the term "remarkable" around lightly. Their Ratatouille Provencal is a vegan's dream, plump with luscious zucchini and eggplant, and their "Trader Jose's" charred tomatillo tamales are pregnant little corn-flavored dream tubes. There's quite simply no other way to put it.<br /><br />Long story short, I've been desperately missing those two particular items lately, and had to have them again. At long last, I decided that a disguise was my best course of action.<br /><br />On any given day, I am trim, sharp, and lean. No muss, no fuss. I exist, and I get the job done. I don't have asinine sideburns. I don't care about famous smells. My clothing does not have writing on it. So what do I choose as the perfect disguise? That's right: Donny the Weightlifter. Donny is dopey, musclebound, covered in tight name-brand clothing, drenched in cologne, listening to an MP3 player, hair pulled back in a smother-handle (a pony tail — a smother-handle is a pony tail), and has a "Jersey thug" accent. Nothing could be further from my own natural deportment.<br /><br />Pete loaned me the appropriate costume pieces from the wardrobe he has in the Tuff Shed out in the yard, and helped consult as I tried on various accents and accessories. Say what you want, but Nice Pete is a damn fine judge of character. He sees to the quick of a person, like a scalpel. If something isn't working, he'll know it instinctively. That's how he helped me whip my Donny into shape. Before an hour was up, I was the epitome of the 80 IQ weight room fireplug, effortlessly dropping lines like, "Yoo got any assss, bay-bee?" and "I tink I buss'id my spine."<br /><br />So, decked out in tight white bicycle shorts (the text "OAKLEY" ran up the side of either leg, in very fast-looking lettering), a baby blue tank top with a "Bad Boy Club" muscle guy on it, puffy white high-top muscle shoes, iPod (the screen was cracked, but no one would see that), single-lens sunglasses, and a ponytailed wig, I had him drop me off in front of Trader Joe's. He was to circle the parking lot and watch for me constantly.<br /><br />I walked into the store like nothing was wrong, and to my tremendous relief no one seemed to notice me. I picked up a basket (well, I fumbled the first few, my hands were shaking so badly) and went straight to the frozen foods aisle. A warm feeling washed over me as I saw all the old familiar packages beaming up at me from their little bins. The stir-fry vegetables, the microwave quinoa, the tomatillo tamales...I picked them up one by one and read their nutritional information the way one might read a yearbook entry from an old friend. It was truly gratifying, I will admit that.<br /><br />I must have been lost in dream-land a little bit too long, because the next thing I knew there was a panic in the store, and huge shotgun blasts were erupting in the parking lot. It sounded like Pete's 12-gauge, so I went to peek out the window. Women and children were falling into terrified piles to the left and right of me.<br /><br />Indeed, that fool had set up a line of organic watermelons in the parking lot, and was blasting them with his rifle. I swear, you can take the boy out of the country, but you cannot take the country out of the boy. I ran and jumped into the van, which gave him the cue to skedaddle. We left a pretty nice snake of tread on the lot, and made it home well ahead of the patrol sirens. Oh, and the best part? I had unwittingly left the store with a basket full of ratatouille and tamales!<br /><br />All in all, a pretty good day, I guess. No one can finger me, because I was in disguise, and Pete is going to drive his new sports car for a while, so his van can lay low.<br /><br />— Pat.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1146729348802891152006-05-04T00:49:00.000-07:002006-05-04T22:47:55.540-07:00I, for one, am GLAD gas costs so much these days!I can't turn my head without seeing some headline about the high price of gas these days. You know what I say? Hah! B.S.! The price of gas hasn't gone up, the appeal of owning a gas-slurping SUV has gone <span style="font-style: italic;">down!</span> Natural corrective forces are at work, here.<br /><br />Seriously, 99% of our daily trips can be taken via flyweight recumbent bicycle or gravity-sensible skitter-carts. These machines not only exercise the body, but they take no fossil fuels and create virtually no meaningful wear on the terrain (skitter-cart brake levers do scrape the ground, but as the brake pad is composed entirely of a pumice-fortified soap, the net effect is one of overall environmental cleansing). Imagine a system where nutrients that fortify your body are obtained on a trip that exercises that very same body, and creates no harmful pollutants to hurt the body. Welcome to my world. The vegetables cost a little bit more, and require more rinsing, and often have to be discarded or hit with a can of Raid, but that is a small price to pay.<br /><br />My way of life may be slightly more expensive in some areas, but when you see the massive savings I have in the categories of meat, liquor, name-brand "hygiene" products, gasoline, cable television, and Internet access (good old 56k dialup is all the sensible Internet user needs, so long as images are turned off, as they should be in pretty much all cases), it won't be long before you come around to my way of living. You can't afford <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> to. <br /><br />Pat Reynolds<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">preynolds1@well.com</span>menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1144824896444327662006-04-11T23:41:00.000-07:002006-04-13T00:19:01.836-07:00What a F+*KING DISASTER.I could not see more red than I am seeing right now. <br /><br />"Veat." VEAT?! Is that what they called it? Agrarian Nation, the largest vegan food manufacturer in the world, has totally, TOTALLY dropped the ball on their mainstream vegan offerings. <br /><br />First of all, they're calling their product "Veat." Yeah, like "meat." Right. Because we all want to think about meat all the time. We wish we were eating meat. Oh, how we wish we had meat. NO. WRONG. JESUS H KABAL OF ASSHOLES WHAT IS GOING ON HERE. <br /><br />Secondly, their sub-categorization is crass. Their poultry breast bestitute is called, simply, "BREAST." <i>It's a lump of processed soyfu pressed into a mold.</i> I know a room full of A.N. MBAs were laughing as they imagined us eating this stuff, but did they have to name the product just, "BREAST"? Not even "Turkey Breastitute" or "Chicken Breast Finger Betters"? I feel so insulted just buying a frozen container of "Breast." It's just, just...transparently insulting. <br /><br />Oh, and if that wasn't bad enough, Daylight Savings Time has totally thrown off my digestion. I wish to hell they didn't arbitrarily gerrymander the clock every time a politician needed to stir up dust on a slow newsday. <br /><br />PAT.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1140940525484544722006-02-25T23:20:00.000-08:002006-02-25T23:55:25.526-08:00Great new game.Those of you not familiar with the FalconLore™ RPGs and Character Developer Kits may finally have a reason to cross over into FL. They just released their most powerful, versatile solution of all time, <span style="font-weight: bold;">HeroCrafter</span>. I've never seen anything like it. I am absolutely floored by the reasoning that went into this product.<br /><br />First of all, it's easier than ever before to create a realistic hero. The intuitive, balanced flowcharts that get you going, plus the weighting systems that help you generate an Idealized Model (Stamina, Motivation, Training, Respect, Weaknesses) are absolutely, technically brilliant.<br /><br />Oh, and I'd be completely remiss if I didn't mention the real gem of this product: The Tragedie, a large, translucent, fifteen-sided die that lists a different Life-Tragedy on each face. These range from Death of Father, to Sibling Betrayal, to Travellers' Betrayal, to Caul-veil Birth (positive, add 10). The Tragedie is the "wild card" that takes the hero you design and assigns a completely arbitrary, secondary weakness. This is the master-stroke. It helps take a consciously-designed character and give him that unpredictable element of life that you just don't get from most systems.<br /><br />I've been going crazy with HeroCrafter all night. I even missed dinner — tempeh with "crazy mold," a dish I've been perfecting over time. Well, I guess I didn't technically miss it, since I went down and ate it a little later than I should have, but you get my point: <span style="font-style: italic;">HeroCrafter. Awesome.</span>menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1138347617871770432006-01-26T23:18:00.000-08:002006-01-26T23:40:17.906-08:00Shopping cart incident.I'll make no secret of it: I do not return shopping carts to the cart-yard when I am done shopping. I've always said that leaving the carts out on the lot equals job security for the poor lowest-rung dolts who work for the store. However, I have no problem with letting someone who is just about to *enter* the store take my cart once I have unloaded my groceries. I'm done with it — what do I care? This coincidence is so rare that it can hardly cost any lot-dolt his job.<br /><br />Today, however, made me reconsider my likelihood of handing off a recently-unladen cart. There I was, closing the trunk of my car, when an older gentleman with a white beard asked if I was done with it. I communicated a very unmisinterpretable "She's all yours," and he nodded and took the thing away. I got into the car and thought very little of the transaction.<br /><br />While I was readying the controls for driving, I noticed the man walk up to the entrance of the store. <span style="font-style: italic;">He pushed the cart into the cart-yard, walked into the store, and picked up a hand-basket.</span><br /><br />I shoved my keys back into my pocket and strode directly into the store. How DARE he. I found him around the gourmet packaged snacks area and made no disguise of my anger. "How DARE you insinuate that I am too lazy to return the cart to its proper area!" I said. "How DARE you carry out such an insult right before me!"<br /><br />He played the chicken and tried to back away from me, upsetting a small display of breadsticks and cheese. I saw my chance and pounced.<br /><br />Thinking quickly, I pulled a cold salami out of a refrigerated deli display and shoved it down the front of his pants. "I hope it's expensive, because you can't return salami you put in your PANTS!" I yelled. With that, I quickly strode out the door and sped off for home. I hate getting tangled up with idiots and the way they solve unusual problems. So much standing around.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1136188531905230472006-01-01T23:28:00.000-08:002006-01-01T23:55:31.936-08:00New Year's Resolutions: 2006Before I get to the fun stuff, I will just conclude the CheatLoaf saga by saying that Ray got wind of the whole thing and persuaded his friend at the police station to "lose" the charges against me. Huh. Maybe he can be of some use after all. I guess that's his good deed for the year. Lord knows he'll just fritter the rest of it away sittin' on some fancy pool chair drinkin' eight dollar liquor.<br /><br />Speaking of new years, here are my resolutions for the twelve months ahead! See if you can keep up — maybe print this out as a goal sheet. I may make a contest out of this, if I can figure out the web-based input fields and SQL back-end that would allow you to post your own results and compare them to mine.<br /><br />PAT REYNOLDS' NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS<br /><br />1. Hold breath for greater than one minute (fully submerged)<br /><br />2. Get typing WPM up over 100. Really need to focus on this one, been slipping a little.<br /><br />3. Stop watching South Park while waiting for The O'Reilly Factor. They do this stupid little overlap timing thing between various stations and I had found myself watching entire minutes of that deplorable cartoon show. God, is it crass. I've been watching more and more, just wondering what awful thing they'll say next.<br /><br />OH CRAP oh dammit NetZero's dialup connections are flaking out during this storm we're having<br /><br />CRAP oh CRAP will have to finish this later<br /><br />DAMMMNNN ITTTTT<br />atdt 866-8176<br />%<br />%<br />% hello?<br />%<br />%oh CRAP<br />%<br />% hello?<br />% damn this hissing modem<br />%<br />% atm0menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1134199960819004402005-12-09T21:24:00.000-08:002005-12-12T00:07:54.523-08:00Loaf-off!With a cooler full of freshly-unmolded CheatLoaf and a straining backpack laden with cooking utensils, sauces, and service-ware, I trundled through the rear loading dock doors of Mollie Stone's at 4am this morning. I had scored a prime Saturday slot in which to purvey my wares, and even though they do not open until 7am, I wasn't going to disrespect their generous offer by breezing in dangerously close to opening. I aimed to prove that I was every bit as serious as anyone who has ever been in business.<br /><br />No one was around except for a few stockers and a foreign man running a floor-waxer, so I was able to set up camp in peace. I took my designated spot in the little corridor which leads from the produce department to the meat department, which I thought was fitting, as my product is basically the Cerberus that will keep all meat-eaters from passing through into that "underworld" (this is a reference to Greek Mythology). I set up a loaner table, draped my "CheatLoaf! No Meat, No Wheat, No <span style="font-style: italic;">Bleat!</span>" banner across the front, and began warming the paprika-cardamom scallion "soap"-glaze that I would be using on sample preparation A.<br /><br />Truth be told, I had invested a little of my personal savings in some promotional gear for the event. Normally I am against such tit-headed nonsense as clothing with writing on it, but in this case I made an exception. I wanted to give my product full support, so I had a nice forest green fleece turtleneck embroidered with the words "Cheat" across the chest, and "Loaf!" on the back. I thought this was rather ingenious, as it made the viewer curious to see what the back of the shirt said. Once you have them hooked like that, they're all yours.<br /><br />Additionally, I had bought a pair of matching green fleece sweatpants with the same "Cheat," "Loaf!" back/front embroidery. It underscored the turtleneck wonderfully, and when I tried the complete ensemble on in the mirror while quickly turning from front to back, the effect was magical. I don't toss that word around easily, by the way.<br /><br />Around 6:45am who did I see wander in with a Peet's and a hand-truck full of his own samples but Roger, the Trader Joe's free sample circuit man! I guess he whores himself out to <span style="font-style: italic;">other</span> stores, as well! The bastard set up camp directly across from me, in the area between the front doors and the produce. He had the better spot! By the time everyone finished sampling his product, they'd be tired of the experience and have less patience with me! I guess that's the dues you pay when you're new. I knew my product was better than whatever lifeless crap he was hocking, and I knew that time would favor the superior salesman, so I patted the hair on the back of my neck down and took a breath. I stood and looked his direction for several moments at a time, but the son of a bitch never so much as glanced my way. I guess he knew he'd slighted me back in September and was too ashamed to make eye contact. Figures. That just fueled my flames for the long day ahead.<br /><br />Right at 7am shoppers started pouring in, and I saw pretty much every single one pick something up off his table. I couldn't tell what he was offering, but everyone sure seemed to be into it. I hung behind my table, patiently waiting for them to make their way to me.<br /><br />Drawing upon my extensive experience with free sample counters, I tried to appear busy, so that shoppers would not feel put upon by eye contact and unwanted barking. I glazed slices of CheatLoaf, stirred my marinara, chopped butter pickles (these are delicious with CL), and placed small portions in sample cups. When I no longer needed to do that, I balanced my checkbook, made sure both my shoes were tied, pretended to count the sample cups with an index finger, scribbled on a clipboard...nobody was coming to my table.<br /><br />Nearly insane with confusion, I all but grabbed a woman who was passing by and asked what Roger was offering. I may have said, "What does Roger have that I don't," I can't remember. She looked scared, but then I pointed at him and said, "the other free sample guy." Her answer hit me like a ton of bricks: he was pitching Hoffmueller AG <span style="font-style: italic;">BeatLoaf</span> (aka <span style="font-style: italic;">Rübekäse</span>), a German import meatloaf best-stitute made from riced Affenklotz beets, soy, and just insane amounts of sodium. <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br />HOW IN THE HELL OF SHIT COULD MOLLIE STONE'S BOOK TWO MEATLOAF BEST-STITUTE SALESMEN TO COMPETE ON THE SAME DAY!?<br /><br />BeatLoaf dominates the market, and I was more than put out by this discovery. It was like an independent cola salesman trying to take on Coke. I began to overheat, and when I overheat, I start to get dizzy and nauseated, so I had to take off my turtleneck then and there, lack of undershirt notwithstanding (I keep in good shape, my upper body is inoffensive—in fact, if anything, it is exemplary—but I digress). I took several gulps of water from my Nalgene bottle, poured a little on my head like a boxer, and jogged in place for a few invigorating moments. Never had I felt so ready to defeat an enemy. I vowed then and there that if I did not move more samples than Roger, I would quite simply tear his head off in the parking lot once evening came. Hands only. No mechanical advantage or levers. Step on his foot, cup the base of the skull, and pull up. My rule.<br /><br />Abandoning all I knew about the soft sell, I tied a length of produce bags around my forehead and began to put on an incredible act. "Hey now, hey now!" I barked, juggling entire loaves of CheatLoaf. People started to notice. Every so often I would grab a loaf and take a bite, which is always a good trick. As I juggled I rattled off facts about my product: "'Wheat Free! Gluten Free! Meat Free! Please your friends on a Sunday night! CheatLoaf is a murder-free meal!" I was on fire. I began to ask the gathering audience questions: "So, anyone from out of town?" One man raised his hand. "Where from?" I asked. "Boston," he said. "Then try my product!" I yelled, while carefully lowering myself into a splits and then rising back up again, juggling all the while. Amazing.<br /><br />A few clerks and managers had started to gather around my display at this point. "That's right, folks," I bantered. "Welcome to Mollie Stone's, the only store to feature CheatLoaf! Mollie Stone's, everybody! A murder-free store! Except for THOSE assholes!" (I turned and pointed back at the butchers, who had also stopped to watch.) I was no longer a man—I was living, breathing art. I was a challenge. I was history. I half expected to win some sort of grant from the store for this.<br /><br />Instead, the clerks and managers began to close in on me, their hands at the ready, fingers up, palms out. I'd seen this position in countless videos of overthrown public demonstrations — the bastards were about to tackle me! What the hell?! I grabbed a spatula and turned to run. No dice - the meat department was there forming an impenetrable wall, and I don't need to tell you what kind of visions I had of their blood-stained justice.<br /><br />I faked left, burst through a vulnerability at their right front, and made for the rear exit. Along the way I was broadsided into the homeopathic remedies aisle by a cow and her cart, where I briefly tried to hide behind the pitch-man for CatheterWish Continence Convenience Systems (a home catheter system for those who are continent but work long hours and don't want to suffer the inconvenience of regular bathroom visits) but the smell was unbearable and I darted out again...into the arms of a heavily padded thug in a baker's toque.<br /><br />Long story short, I wasn't put through the meat grinder and sold as frankfurters, but I <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> booked into police custody on charges of creating a public disturbance, and also for creating an "unhygienic food environment" (by not wearing a shirt in the produce department). Needless to say, once I cool down I will begin outlining the many aspects of my lawsuit against Mollie Stone's, particular employees thereof, the Achewood police department, and, get this—Roger! I'm getting him on anti-trust charges, for distributing a product which enjoys an unlawful monopoly. I may also get the guy from CatheterWish, but only if I have time.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1132472821951521742005-11-19T16:00:00.000-08:002005-11-19T23:47:01.963-08:00I'm going to be the next Dr. Mohid Prasham!Don't know who Dr. Mohid Prasham is? Then you're an idiot. He's the genius behind Dr. P's Victim of a Conscience C-Food, maybe the world's best line of seafood best-stitutes. Where the vision behind "Cam's Pickled Pinto Khlams" left off, Dr. P picked up. Yes, he advised on the Phake Mushels line of hominy-based mussel best-stitutes, but his true genius (christ, why do I keep trying to type that word as "genious"?@!) lies in more complex seafood recipes. He makes a vegetal cioppino that will quite literally take the top of your head off. You never knew fennel could dance on your tongue that way. You never knew that Yukon Gold potatoes could crap all over shrimp, in the flavor category. The list of things you do not know about butter beans versus bay scallops quite frankly pisses me off.<br /><br />Anyhow, I've got a recipe going that I think will be every bit as popular as anything Dr. P has created. What did I do? I took a popular meat-based dish and veganized it. That's the only way to get the message out to a wider audience. Show them that what they enjoy is wrong, and that it needs to be changed. Infiltrate. That's right, I took on the grand-daddy of them all. The Meat Mothership. I took Old Man Meatloaf to task, <span style="font-style: italic;">and I kicked his ass to the dirt</span>. I came up with a food product that is so superior in <span style="font-style: italic;">E</span>thics, <span style="font-style: italic;">E</span>arth-footprint, and production-<span style="font-style: italic;">E</span>missions, that I'm just trembling as I finalize the recipe.<br /><br />Look for me in your eco-telligent grocery store soon. I blew the lid off the meatloaf lie, and I am applying for permits as you read this. Once you taste my CheatLoaf, that's all she wrote.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1131868421844272322005-11-12T22:14:00.000-08:002005-11-12T23:53:41.900-08:00On to Mollie Stone's.For the last several weeks, if not months, I have had nothing but trouble trying to patronize eco-telligent grocery stores. Trader Joe's finally wore out my patience with their insane free-sample men, and Whole Foods...well, you can read what happened at Whole Foods. That was about two posts ago.<br /><br />My pantry has steadily been growing bare since the Whole Foods incident, and today, as I was consuming my last precious slices of What Are You In-Ham-U-Ating? cured avocado ham, I knew I had to get out there and find a new damned place to shop. The assurance that my foray would almost certainly end in utter disappointment was with me from the onset.<br /><br />Here in the San Francisco Bay Area there is a chain of grocery stores nearly identical to Whole Foods, except with lower ceilings and a penchant for low-budget animatronic displays in the produce and bakery departments. It is called Mollie Stone's, and in their Palo Alto produce department, a trio of deranged 3' tall corn cobs (they do not even have eyes) does a crummy, jerky dance to "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" while a chubby, recently-sated radish blinks and rubs its tummy (oh, so the RADISH gets eyes?!). It makes no sense to me at all.<br /><br />That aside, it is one of my last options in terms of earth-friendly grocery shopping, and so I had to give it its fair shake.<br /><br />I didn't mess around, and immediately headed to the bulk aisle. This is the true litmus test of an intelligent grocery store, and Mollie Stone's fared pretty well. Quinoa, true couscous, yab, smoked mace, even imported gummi Shinto gates. Their bulk buyer knew his business, and I inwardly respected him. I even went so far as to nibble on a Nogurt-covered dehydrated parsnip ring (technically, an "extroodle," made from extruded, flash-baked parsnip foam) and silently nod, should he be watching from the closed circuit anti-theft camera. <br /><br />Smooth sailing, so far. I made my way through the canned goods, restocking many familiar staples, such as Amy's Organic One-Bean Soup (finally, a company that isn't trying to appeal to my baser instincts with an overwhelming variety of beans), Franklin W. Chong's water chestnuts (great on long car trips), and AAA-Service crackers, the only canned crackers available on the American market. Excellent. All items which would serve well in any respectable disaster-preparedness pack.<br /><br />Heh. You were probably waiting for this part. Yes, I did finally run across a free-sample table, somewhere around the endcap of the home goods aisle. It offered a kalamata olive-based salsa called "Soulsa," and, after checking the ingredients on the opened jar, I scooped some onto a pita chip and took a bite. Truth be told, the olives made for a heavy, almost leaden flavor, not like what you'd want from a salsa, and it lacked zing. It was really more of a tapenade, if anything, and did not successfully enter the realm of Mexican condimentry.<br /><br />The host of the table was a curious specimen. She was stout, and wore baggy carpenter's jeans, with a punk person studded belt, and much too small of a striped polo-type shirt. A sizable band of her midriff was exposed, which I fortunately didn't see until after I tasted the product. Perhaps the strangest thing about her was her short spiky hair and the way she seemed to stare straight ahead at the top of the wall she was facing. The whole time I was tasting I don't think she so much as flinched. When I finally finished sampling the product and began to describe its shortcomings to her, I noticed that tears were running silently down her cheeks, and she was fighting to hold back what seemed like a sea of blubbering.<br /><br />I can always tell when someone's going to lose it and just blubber like there was no tomorrow. This was one of those times. She had no business trying to hock a product in that state of mind, so I took control and told her she was dismissed. She immediately turned and headed off for the black rubber employee double-doors, and I, feeling some sense of interim duty, took up her post. For the better part of half an hour I stood and described the leaden, unpleasant qualities of the Soulsa product, and encouraged customers to look elsewhere for their salsa needs. When it became apparent that the girl was not coming back, I waited for a lull in the crowd, took off the Soulsa apron, and wheeled off to the checkstand with my cart.<br /><br />I kind of liked the Mollie Stone's experience. Call me unusual, but I very much enjoyed the feeling of standing on the other side of the free sample table. I think I will be back. I think I may even develop my own food product, and evangelize it in eco-telligent grocery stores. Time to hit the drawing board.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1130837145074847532005-11-01T00:47:00.000-08:002005-11-01T01:25:45.576-08:00Hallowe'en!You can say whatever you want about Hallowe'en, but I'm all for it. It's one of the rare occasions where I get to don my Sir Gwaið falconer's raiment and show the trick-or-treaters what it really means to assume the responsibility of representing another time or land!<br /><br />I don't keep a true falcon on Hallowe'en, but rather a simulacrum which will not attack children (in their majestic and far-sweeping wisdom, true falcons will attack children). As they ring the doorbell, I greet the tots first by poking my head out, peering at each one of them, and scarily asking "WHOO-OO-OOOO would like to know the truth about falcons!"<br /><br />Invariably, at least one among them will raise a trepidatious hand. I then yell GOOD! and slam the door shut. At this point I quickly slip on my falcon sock-puppet, open the door just a nidge, and stick his head out there. I then "make" him say, "A falcon is a noble bird! We are servants, yet we are not to be mocked! Do you mock me, children?!"<br /><br />The children nearly never mock him, and are sent on their merry way with a package of oyster crackers or ketchup. Only once did I have an incident, when an asshole father kicked the door shut on my wrist after his little group of fairy-princess totlings started to cry. If I ever see him again, I'm going to cut his throat open with a Garden Weasel.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1129614277358251182005-10-17T19:59:00.000-07:002005-10-18T20:30:01.556-07:00Bye, bye Trader Joe's!As you know, I have been having a pretty horrible time trying to shop at Trader Joe's lately, and today I came to the realization that I should just cut my losses and find a new chain of eco-telligent grocery stores. Fortunately, there is a Whole Foods nearby. Or, at least, I thought that was fortunate. This afternoon changed my opinion pretty radically.<br /><br />My trip started out pretty well, as I cruised their organic produce and gamely tucked a few zucchini and Swiss chard bundles into my cart. Fresh Mandell beans, medium-grind sorghum on the bulk aisle (non-perquaalus shell, of course)...things were looking up. I was impressed to see that they carried "¿B-Eer," a yeastless beer which ferments with the help of baking soda and nasturtium pollen, so I picked up a six-pack. Heck, I was feeling like I might even have one! I dared to allow myself to enjoy "Summer of 69," which played at a sensible volume over the loudspeakers.<br /><br />Then came the first of many gauntlets: the free sample man. Unlike Trader Joe's, the Whole Foods free sample tables are sponsored by outside vendors, so there is a greater chance that they will annoy you with their pushiness. This particular vendor was hocking chive crackers, and truth be told, he was enormously skilled. He chatted casually with another patron as I wheeled up to take the sample, and as I reached for the tray he gently pushed it forward <span style="font-style: italic;">just a millimeter</span> so as to imply that he knew I was there, should I have any questions, but he wasn't going to bug me. Brilliant. I have yet to see a free sample man as talented as him, anywhere. Simply amazing.<br /><br />After that, I took a quick tour of their vegan aisle and cooler. Phake Mushels' Brand hominy mussels: check. Burlington Bob's Cedar Soda: check. Souvlaki With a Conscience "Slaveless Universe" Souvlaki: check. Wow. Three for three. They even had a special note about pre-ordering Toflourkens for the holidays!<br /><br />At this point, Whole Foods was looking pretty good, I have to say. I was ready to put a few more items in the cart, when all of a sudden IT happened. You know what I mean. The thing that always and forever will ruin an otherwise perfect shopping experience.<br /><br />That's right: a woman's armpit hair. I'm not mincing words here, that's what I saw. A woman's armpit hair. And it was on an EMPLOYEE, no less.<br /><br />There I was, rounding the corner by the Odwalla cooler, when I saw her stacking canned beans onto a high shelf. There was no mistaking it. It was brown and curly. I want to vomit just thinking of it.<br /><br />I immediately abandoned my cart and made for the entrance. The place seemed to be closing in around me, and I was having trouble breathing. Only when I had gotten to my car did I notice that not only had I sweated through my shirt, but I had also pulled so hard on my left ear that my nail-marks had drawn blood.<br /><br />Well, it's just simple pasta with flax oil and garlic tonight, I'm afraid. I guess it's for the best, as the History Channel is showing a special on Henry Ford and I don't want to be stuck in the kitchen doing a bunch of dishes when the messageboards light up.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1129272185671074242005-10-13T22:43:00.000-07:002005-10-14T09:26:28.376-07:00Computer Software.Do you ever have problems using computer software? Not me. I find that at this point in software's evolution, it has generally been through a rigorous QA/usability evaluation, and if the user will simply take the <span style="font-style: italic;">calm, sober, and SINCERE</span> time to assess the product's purposes and limitations, all will be well. I am sick to death of overhearing nitwits whining about the latest version of this-or-that, either in public or on the various usability boards I peruse.<br /><br />Take this morning, for example. I was having an Espresso at Greg's Uptown Diner, trying to shake off the sleepies after a late, frenzied night on the History channel messageboards, when in wandered a couple of crisply-dressed, sharply-coiffed executive women. Each wore a cellular telephone on her belt, and expensive jewelry. To my amusement, they sat at the table next to mine and began to chatter this way and that about FormatMaker 7, a freeware spreadsheet program in which I am especially well-versed.<br /><br />Most FM7 newbies will first have trouble with the GUI, which does not waste screen real estate on graphical icons, and instead has a row of numbers, representing command categories, which, when moused over while pressing Shift, drop down into sub-command columns, represented by single letters. One can <span style="font-style: italic;">blitz</span> through this program using keyboard-based power-shortkeycuts. If you want visual proof, I have several .avi files of me doing just that, available via my members-only ftp site.<br /><br />Apparently their CTO was trying to save the company money by using freeware, (smart move, definitely) but his users (these two nincompoops, for example) were simply unwilling to spend even one hour familiarizing themselves with the software they would more than likely be using for the rest of their lives. Imagine a Colonial wheelwright who refused to learn the settings of his lathe, or an ancient Greek baker who simply would not let other bakers tell him the ingredients of bread. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ludicrous.</span><br /><br />Espresso is, fortunately, a small drink, so I was able to finish on my own time and leave before I had to sit through any more gut-wrenching, ignorant disparaging of this brilliant program. ("Where's the SAVE button?" "How do you freaking PRINT?" "How come I have to launch it from the COMMAND LINE?!" <span style="font-style: italic;">Boo-hoo-tardoo and good riddance to you!</span>)menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1128833484571041312005-10-08T21:18:00.000-07:002005-10-08T21:51:24.576-07:00HUGE breakthrough at swing class. HUGE.I have been getting back into swing dancing, a little faster than the doctors would like, after the incident last July where I hyperextended both my knees while executing a New Paltz Punch (freestanding backflip with full-splits landing and razzle-dazzle hands). I know when my body's ready, and no insurance company recommendation is going to come between me and my skill.<br /><br />During tonight's swing class I had a zip-top bag of orange juice in the pocket of my lined, loose dance pants, and as we warmed up I began to notice the strangest sensation. I would take a step, and the juice would follow along a beat later, creating a sort of wave-like timing or metronome with my movements. If I moved in a precise pattern, the juice bag would be right there with me, complementing my every motion. THEN it struck me!<br /><br />The reason that women tend to be better dancers than men is obvious: BREASTS. Simple, easy-to-have breasts. They provide a natural swaying counterpoint which helps a woman establish impeccable time. The next time you see a woman dancing, don't think that she's any good at it. Know that she's just using her breasts. Women with smaller breasts will tend to dance better to faster music (quicker breast reaction/"snap" time), and women with larger/longer breasts will tend to hit the dance floor during ballads or dirges. It's all so simple. In a way, it's shameless that women have never admitted this in any of their media outlets. Sorry, women, it's over. Pat blew the whistle, loud and clear. You suck.menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1128062863245561812005-09-29T21:53:00.000-07:002005-09-30T12:16:34.900-07:00Heretic. Asshole! MORON!Well, if you've been reading my blog then you know I have had no end of trouble with the Trader Joe's chain of "intelligent" grocery stores. I have taken issue with their practice of hiring deformed employees (July 20, 2004), and also with the people they hire to hand out free samples (July 8, 2004). There have been other issues, of course, but I have not bothered to make the time to chronicle them. One has to make time for one's self.<br /><br />Today's entry also concerns their free sample people, but it is not the complaint I have registered in the past. Previously, their "barkers" were quite simply TOO pushy, to the point of getting themselves fired (via my insistence). In this instance, the barker was unforthcoming to the point of extreme exasperation. Even now, I find myself unreasonably angry. I will explain.<br /><br />If you live in some blighted area without a Trader Joe's, then it is up to me to point out that a primary feature of this chain is their "free sample" counter, a permanent fixture where they combine two or three of their products in an appealing way and offer them to the shopper. Samples may include little cups of Nosausage Floo-roni (a meatless macaroni and cheese with Greek hermaphrodite peas and flour sausage), or a quinoa-raisin salad with dried mangoes and rape nuts. They also offer free coffee for those so addicted.<br /><br />Today's sample was "Spaghetti and Wheatballs," a meatball best-stitute, which they served in a reconstituted cup with their organic durum spaghetti, hydroponic marinara, and powdered milkweed "pecorino." I took a sample from Roger, their circuit man, and was impressed with what I tasted. After I took my initial bite and let the flavors settle on my tongue for a while, I asked him politely if the Wheatballs were made in a facility that also processed nuts and dairy.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">That god damned bitch-shit did not fucking do or say a thing.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></span>I was QUITE CLEAR! I did NOT MUMBLE! I KNOW WHO HE IS! HE WORKS THERE ALMOST EVERY F-MOTHER WEEK!<br /><br />He just stood there in his easygoing shirt and kept scooping Wheatballs into cups...I'm shaking as I write this.<br /><br />Once I was sure no one had seen this asinine non-repartee, I furiously wheeled my cart back over to the juice area, abandoned it, and drove home. I don't care if my freezer items melted and leaked on the floor! I don't care if someone had to put my Luna bars back into their display boxes! FUCK, FUCK ALL OF YOU AT TRADER JOE'S!menoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511767.post-1125960580936110222005-09-05T15:35:00.000-07:002005-09-05T15:49:40.940-07:00Siccio, the IDIOT, has died.The damned fool took his own life with a disposable safety scalpel when the nurse wasn't looking, leaving me with a shambles of a lawsuit on my hands. I'll be a monkey's uncle if I can make sense of any of his notes, which mainly consist of misspellings of various peoples' names and a lot of extremely complex doodles of spirals and doors.<br /><br />In one dense and cryptic section he apparently left all his worldly assets to me, so I've got to go down to his attorney's office and sort out what I want and what's going in the garbage. I hope his attorney's garbage can is ready to contain a lot of Italian wool suits, because I have NO PATIENCE for Italian people and the cocky way they dress. If I see any sunglasses, they are also going in the garbage. I hate sunglasses.<br /><br />In the meanwhile, I guess I have to put my lawsuit against Hair Have You Been? and its employees on hold. Whatever. I was kind of losing interest in it anyway, since it was such a formality of a slam-dunk. I don't really need the money, I more just wanted them to be put out of business. Maybe later tonight I will throw a rock through their window.menoreply@blogger.com